Revenge of the black Llama

This poetry stuff isn’t so hard. Think I’m getting the hang of it…


Once upon a Wednesday dreary
back when women were scarce… and sheep still quite leery
There rode into town, riding a black old Llama, a wandering Berber
whose name was Mustafa

The Llama looked tired, his eyes were all glazey
The Berber was a tad hefty and (apparently) pretty damn lazy.
He dug in his spurs, as he hit the poor Llama, he was somewhat foul tempered
and was craving a shawarma

‘You damn miserable cur I should have gotten a camel’ raged the Berber as he dismounted¬†and then booted the mammal
He tied the sullen beast outside to a post
and then stalked off in search of that delicious spinning roast

It was the straw that broke the Llamas back.
He was angry now. And that was that.
There is nothing quite as scary I can tell you right now
As what that Llama did to Mustafa in the middle of downtown

Mustafa came back feeling content… and quite fat
He didn’t even notice the Llama was angry, until it spat…
but it didn’t end there for that was not his fate
for years of abuse had filled that Llama with hate
it bit him, and knee’d him and¬†trampled his ribs
and alas to this day Mustafa will never have kids

So if its not quite clear to our dear readers as yet…
Please treat your Llama with the utmost respect


Llama poetry

There are A LOT of people writing and self-publishing poetry out there. Some of it is really good. (some of it… I don’t understand, but wandering round frowning and/or perplexed is not that unusual for me)

I’ve also just finished Legends of the Samurai by Hiroaki Sato. The samurai class appreciated the duality of being both martial and cerebral and spent as much time contemplating verse as they did practicing their sword form. And while I am neither particularly martial, or particularly cerebral… I thought I would give it a go anyway…


There once was a man from Peru.

Who owned several pairs of shoes…
And a habitually angry Llama.
Yes, that too.

The thing was a beast!
It wasn’t that bad…
A finger and thumb are all that remain, of that chance encounter in the pen that day.

Oh Ned won’t you please, relate for me that tale, of you and that Llama, on that fateful May day.
Well… The Russians were marching… of that I am sure…
And I heeded not the warnings of local (and ancient) lore

I reached out to pat it… But little did I know, the thing was of violent temperament…
And I was a little slow.

It lashed out… quick as a flash… and that… as they say, was that.
Oh I howled and I cried for all that it helped…
My fingers it swallowed with a smile and a belch.

So should you ever go down to the pens one day…
Remember old Ned… and turn the other way.

Not exactly Robert Frost with his divergent thoroughfares… but I’m giving myself a gold star on my (ample) forehead for effort anyway. Yay me!